


John Doe

by Calais_Reno



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Childhood Memories, Declarations Of Love, Don’t copy to another site, Friendship/Love, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-29
Updated: 2019-07-01
Packaged: 2020-05-30 15:46:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19406401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calais_Reno/pseuds/Calais_Reno
Summary: After being wounded in Afghanistan, John Watson returned to England, where he had neither kith nor kin.Years later, a case involving a child inspires Holmes to find out what happened to Watson's family.





	1. The Foundling

The year 1895 was a busy one. I turned down cases that seemed less interesting in favour of several sensational crimes which Watson has written up and published in the _Strand_. There is one case, however, that I took only because we’d hit a dry spell and Watson was so put out at my bored antics around the flat that he insisted. Though the solution did not require my talents, the circumstances of the case led to one of the great mysteries of my career, one which changed both my life and Watson’s.

It was a sad case with an ending both simple and unsatisfactory. Both parents dead (murder/suicide), a child old enough to retain some impression of the event surviving them both. I went through the evidence with Lestrade, keeping an eye on Watson, who held the child, about two years old, waiting for a social worker from the Local Council to come and take him away.

He was speaking to the little boy, bouncing him a bit as he talked. I could not hear what he was saying, but the expression on his face was something I hadn’t seen before. Warm, nurturing. A parental expression.

Some people automatically respond to children; these are people who have planned to become parents at some point. People like me, who have no desire to produce offspring, are often awkward around babies and children. I hope not to have conversations with small humans, knowing that those conversations will end in tears— theirs or mine. I was glad that Watson was with me, able to manage the child until some official person showed up.

And it occurred to me as I watched him that John Watson’s ill-fated marriage was mostly about the possibility of fatherhood. From what I could tell, he mourned his wife adequately, but notexcessively. He was fond of her, perhaps considered that love, but his heart did not seem broken. Once I returned, I expressed condolences for his loss. It did not take long to turn his grief around. He seemed content to resume our previous life together at Baker Street.

I watched him, noting the tone of voice, the sweet smile, the gentle gestures. I observed how the child reacted, a bit shy, but trusting, as if he understood that the man holding him was a good person.

I know my Watson is a good man. Until that moment, I had not known that he had wanted to be a father.

An official person finally appeared and took the child away. I saw Watson conversing with the woman, noted the unhappy expression he wore. He waited for me at the street, where we would catch a cab home.

I wound up my business, joined him and signalled a cab to pick us up. He was silent as we climbed in, did not speak on the drive home.

By the time we were back at Baker Street, drinking the tea he made for us, I sensed that Watson was still troubled by the events of the day. I tried to phrase a question, but before I could think of what to ask, or even how to ask, he rose from his chair.

“I think I’ll retire, Holmes,” he said. “A bit more tired than usual.” He collected our cups and carried them to the kitchen.

“Watson—” I began.

He stopped, turned and regarded me with unusual reserve. _Don’t ask,_ his expression said.

“Sleep well,” I concluded.

He smiled, nodded, and headed for his bedroom.

I sat up and pondered what had happened. A child orphaned, its parents violently dead. Watson’s unusual concern.

This is not to say that I did not expect him to be concerned. He is a compassionate man, a doctor who goes beyond caring for his patients’ physical wellbeing. Children suffer an almost endless string of ailments and minor injuries; he is invariably reassuring and cheerful with his smallest patients. But I had never observed him so affected by a babe-in-arms. I did not think it was merely the age of the child that grievedhim, but I was sure it was grief that I observed. I wondered if it could be the child’s uncertain future that moved him.

That seemed most likely, but it brought more questions to my mind. Many children are orphaned each year in England, but I had never known Watson to take any special notice of them. At Christmas, we both contributed to charities, but the charity dearest to us was in our own neighbourhood, where most of the children we called our Irregulars had parents who could not afford necessities. Watson took care of their illnesses and minor injuries, and we both found odd jobs for which we could pay them a few pennies.

But this was something more. I saw the look on his face when the child was lifted from his arms and taken away. It was more than concern. He felt it as a loss.

I did not know much about Watson’s childhood. I had deduced at least one sibling, a brother, from the watch he carried. His parents were dead, he had admitted, though when I remembered that conversation, his exact words were, _neither kith nor kin_. Though he'd spoken of school chums, I'd never heard him mention a cousin, an aunt, an uncle, or any other relative.

He’d grown up in Northumberland, I’d guessed from his accent, which crept out when his guard dropped, and the fact that his army division was the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. His more recent life I knew better. He’d attended the University of London, trained in surgery at Netley, and gone to Afghanistan as a captain, serving as an army surgeon. Wounded, he’d returned home, and our meeting occurred soon after. At that point in his life, having no one else to turn to, he moved in with me.

As a flatmate, his habits were quiet and regular, and he’d turned out to be an ideal partner in my crime solving adventures. Though not as adept at deduction, his unflagging courage and endurance saw me through many cases. He’d been loyal, predictable, and unfailingly good-humoured as long as I’d known him. That he was without family did not seem to trouble him. He accepted his career-ending wounds with equanimity. As time passed, I found myself growing very fond of him.

He was my conductor of light, I’d said early in our relationship. I’d meant quite the opposite when I said it, for he made obvious, but erroneous assumptions about evidence so regularly that I was able to use him as a kind of reverse compass, pointing in the opposite direction. Much later, I realised that his gift was bringing a different kind of light. He was a moral compass, pointing me to many things I had dismissed as irrelevant, but which were in fact important.

Today’s events were a good example of important irrelevancies. I’d solved the case, the boy had been taken to wherever parentless children went, to be cared for by people whose job it was to be substitute parents. The child was not my problem. Had I not noticed the look on Watson’s face as he held the boy, I would have dismissed the situation from my mind. I would have been climbing the walls within a day, bemoaning the dearth of interesting cases. Watson would bring me tea, remind me not to shoot the walls, and sit quietly, writing up the case and tolerating my restless vexation.

Instead, he had presented me with a new mystery to solve. He’d seemed sad, I thought, upset by the child’s fate. And I needed to know what it meant.

The following morning at breakfast he was as usual. There was no need to speak of the case, whose solution had been lamentably simple. A murder-suicide born of infidelity and rabid jealousy, the child packed off to an orphanage or foster home, perhaps.

After he'd perused the newspaper, I expected Watson to settle down and write up the case. Even when a case proves unworthy of publishing, he always puts down his thoughts about the events and people involved. It is his way of keeping our business tidy, to put down details we may forget and note the conclusions we'd reached. It has proved useful on many occasions.

That morning, however, he did not write. He put on his coat, muttered something about an errand, and went out. Naturally I followed him, maintaining just enough distance that he would not notice me. Watson does not have a distrustful nature, which is not to say he is oblivious. I hoped I had not provoked his suspicion enough to make him notice I was shadowing him.

His first stop was Scotland Yard, presumably to learn where the child had been taken. He came out of that building after some twenty minutes and caught a cab. Certain of his next stop, I again followed.

The Foundling Hospital was his destination. I watched him enter, debating with myself. He was undoubtedly checking on the child’s welfare. Though the clues were few and vague, I examined what they could mean.

We’d seen many bereaved families over the years. Though he often inquired after victims of crimes we investigated, it had always seemed to me that his concerns were prompted by his caregiver instincts. This felt different.

His apparent lack of family, combined with what I observed at the crime scene, suggested to me that he might have lost his parents at an early age and been brought up by strangers, passed from one to the next.

My Watson was a foundling.

This was a leap of logic. Possibly he’d been brought up by relatives who had been neglectful or abusive. I felt in my heart that I should have deduced this by now, though. My hunch was that he’d been raised in an orphanage. I remembered how careful he was not to take up too much space when he’d moved into the flat on Baker Street. I observed how neatly he kept his few possessions, how often he tidied up after me. Though he might have been tidy by nature, I sensed an unease about his habits that suggested he didn't want to be a bother or create a mess.

More data was needed. I would have to visit the General Register Office if I wanted the truth. Since the Civil Registration Act was passed in 1837, all births, marriages, and deaths have been recorded by law. I went to Somerset House, where these records are kept.

I had a birthdate but not a year. We’d been living together just over a year when he’d mentioned that it was his birthday, and I’d taken him out to dinner to celebrate. The date was March 31. I knew he was a couple years older than me. As I was born in 1854, I placed Watson’s birth some time between 1850 and 1853. Assuming that he mentioned it only because it was a significant birthday, I guessed that it was his thirtieth. This would mean he’d been born in 1852. I’d also seen his diploma of medicine, dated 1878. Since he could have been no younger than twenty-five in that year, he might have been born as late as 1853. I had a place to begin.

John Watson is a common name, and no doubt many John Watsons had been born during those years, but I also happen to know his middle name, Hamish, which is less common. And I knew he had been born in Northumberland. The watch he carried bore the initials HW, which might point to a father whose name began with that letter.

Guided by this evidence, I made my request at the desk, and an increasingly annoyed clerk named Mr Munter went back and forth to the file room, returning each time with no certificate. He informed me that Northumberland is close to Scotland (which I knew), and Scotland did not pass a Civil Registration Act until 1855 (which I did not know). If Watson had stolen across the border to be born, he might have evaded registry. This could be a problem, but I decided to focus on Northumberland. Watson had never mentioned Scotland.

I had Mr Munter so piqued by this time that he allowed me into the hallowed file room and invited me to search for myself. It helps, of course, that my brother is a person whose name is known in all the halls of government.

“What happens if an orphaned child has not been given a name?” I asked my new friend after an hour of going through tall, unwieldy binders with narrow lines of handwritten entries. He had returned to filing papers and minding the desk, and was slightly less annoyed, slightly more willing to demonstrate his superior mastery of the filing system.

“If they are adopted after birth, they are filed under the adopted name,” he said.

“And if they are not adopted?”

“It depends on date of birth. Children without known relatives, which is the normal case, would receive a name at the local Foundling Hospital, chosen by the records clerk and added to the Parish Register when they were baptised.”

“They were all baptised?”

“Of course. A great number of abandoned children die, and we can’t have their souls on our conscience, can we? They must be baptised promptly, in case they die.”

I digested this information, felt it stick in my throat. “What of an older child, one orphaned after infancy?”

“Many orphans used to go into the workhouse system. By 1860, enough orphanages were established that more parentless children would have gone into one of those institutions.”

“Where can I find records on foundlings born between 1850 and 1855?”

The answer to this was another unwieldy binder, this one full of people mostly named John and Jane Doe. All were filed by year, month, and day. The birth dates would be approximate, Munter explained, because foundlings often sit around several days before someone decides to register them. And then, only if someone thinks it worthwhile to hand them over to an institution. Children entering life during a particular month might all be assigned a birthday of the first of that month, rather than worry out the details of their parturition.

I toiled through 1852 and 1853, examining each John Doe. Many had died, which was both sad and horrifying. Doctors have observed the effects of isolation on children. A child consigned to an orphanage where too few caregivers managed too many infants might die, not of abuse, but of simple neglect. The lack of hugs and smiles and merely talking to a child might cause it to withdraw. If these things are never supplied, children have been known to die.

But many had lived as well, and I knew that my Watson, a caring and affectionate man, could not have been so neglected.

When I’d narrowed it down to three John Does born in Northumberland in those years, I asked Munter where I might find a record of the names given to these three foundlings.

“If none is given, they were not named until they were baptised,” he said. “You’ll need to see the Parish Record. The parish where they were baptised would have a record of the name.”

By this point Munter was so invested in my search that he gave me a list of likely parishes and suggested that I could write to them. This I did.

What I hadn’t anticipated was that Watson would notice me receiving letters from Northumberland parishes and ask what case it had to do with.

“A case of identity,” I said. “A client wishes me to locate the child she gave up. A simple case, really, no legwork required.”

When the fifth letter arrived, he asked, “No luck yet?”

As it happened, this letter contained the information I was seeking: _John Doe № 23, born 31 March 1852, in Hexham, Northumberland, to parents unknown, baptised John Hamish Watson on 13 May 1852, at St Andrews, Corbridge._ The writer informed me that the boy had been brought up at Saint Cuthbert’s Home for Boys in Blyth.

Watson was still looking at me expectantly. “Have you located the child?” he asked.

“I have.”

He nodded, pleased. “You will contact the client today, I assume, and give her the news. May I go with you?”

“Watson,” I said. “The child is you.”

He was silent for a moment, staring at me with an unreadable expression. “And the client?”

“There is no client.”

I thought he might be angry, because he frowned. I know how to read my Watson’s face, but this I had not seen before. Then I saw how his eyes shone, and I knew he was trying to hold back tears. “Why?” he whispered. “You were… curious?”

“The child,” I said. “The last case. His plight moved you. You visited the Foundling Hospital to see him. I wondered why, and so I did some research. Oh, Watson, I’m sorry! I didn’t want to ask because you didn’t seem to want me to know. Please forgive me. I know so little about your family, and I wondered if you’d even had any. If I overstepped, it was because I care about you. I want to understand you. There are times when you seem… so alone.”

He pressed his lips together and closed his eyes for a moment before he spoke. “There is nothing you can do about my family, Holmes.”

“But— my dear man! Aren’t you even curious? You don’t know who your parents were, whether you have any siblings, or even the circumstances of your birth. Doesn’t that bother you a bit?”

He shrugged. “I’ve always been alone. I grew up in an orphanage, went away to school when I was old enough, and then to the army. I’ve had friends, but life moves on and one tends to lose track of people. When I returned from Afghanistan, I had no one waiting for me. It gave me a certain freedom. I had lost so much at that point, and wasn’t sure my life was worth anything. I was ill and crippled, and glad that no one would fuss over me. I did not know how lonely I was until… until I met you.”

I thought of my own family, my parents now deceased, my brother rarely visiting. At eighteen, with over-solicitous parents, I could hardly wait to get away from home and begin a life of my own. For a man like me, having few relatives seemed an advantage, with fewer people to interfere or make demands of me. I have often thought that the people we are related to are the very last people we would chose to know, did we not share the same blood.

But I wondered what I would have been if I’d never had family. Though my brother often meddled, he was someone I could turn to for help or counsel if needed— without explanation or presumption. That was the advantage of family. To whom could Watson turn? I hoped he would count me as that person who would help him, but would he feel awkward doing that, thinking that he was imposing on our friendship?

“What will happen to the child?” I asked.

“When he is older, if he has not been adopted, he will go to a children’s home, as I did. If he is lucky, good people will adopt him and raise him, and he may have brothers and sisters. I was not so lucky.”

“But Watson, you have a brother! The watch you carry was his, you said.”

“Not a brother by blood.” He smiled. “Harry Watson was an orphan like me who, by chance, had been given the same last name. He could not have been more different from me— dark hair and eyes, great stature and a muscular build— but he considered me as a younger brother. He was my protector.” His eyes glistened. “My hero.”

“What became of him?”

“He was five years older than me, and went out to work in a textile mill when he was fourteen. A fine, strong boy, he worked hard. He’d won the watch off a mate in a game of cards. No great value to the thing, but he’d paid to have his initials engraved on it and sported it like a trophy. When he died a year later in an accident, it was sent to St Cuthbert’s with instructions to give it to me. I was ten.”

I saw now why he treasured the old timepiece, sending it out to be cleaned once a year and carefully polishing it often. It represented something like family to him.

“Watson,” I said. “Everyone has family. You have made up yours by happenstance. I hope that you will consider me at least a dubious fifth cousin once removed.”

He laughed as he wiped his eyes. “Yes, my cousin, I do love you.”

This was more than I ever expected him to say. I knew he meant it facetiously, but his words warmed my heart and touched me deeply.

“Surely you must realise,” I said, “that there are people somewhere, perhaps in Northumberland, perhaps in Scotland, who share your blood. You have real cousins and aunts and uncles who knew your mother, and perhaps your father, though they may never have said vows. Maybe she was ashamed, and ran away to hide her condition. But surely they would be glad to know you, to see their sister, niece, cousin in your features. They would be proud to see what you have made of yourself— an army veteran, a surgeon, a doctor, a writer. Would you not like to know who they are?”

“They may blame me,” he said, his eyes cast down. “They may have cast her out because of me.”

“Who could blame an innocent child?” I asked. “The child you held the other day— is there anyone who blames that innocent for his parents’ sins?”

“You are right,” he said, sighing. “I have from time to time wondered about family. And if they should reject me, I would be no worse off than I am now. Better, because I would at least know them.”

“If they should reject you, they would be imbeciles. And I will tell them so, if they express any such sentiments. No one disparages my Watson. But they will not. They will love you.”

“My dear Holmes.” He smiled, but the tears coursed down his cheeks.


	2. The Journey

It was the kind of plodding detective work that I ordinarily despise, but this was John Watson’s mystery, and it did not matter how many illegible county ledgers and parish registers I had to peruse, or how many ancient, hard-of-hearing Northumbrians I had to interview. I would find Watson’s family and see what they would say to the fine man he’d become.

Knowing where he’d been baptised and when, my suggestion was that we start at St Cuthbert’s, which was a known part of his history, and work our way towards the unknown. I was determined to find people who had known Watson as a child. He was forty-three now, and there must still be a few there who remembered him. I was eager to hear what kind of boy he had been; I knew the man he’d grown into would give his teachers pride. With what facts we gleaned there, we would proceed to Corbridge and Hexham and see if we could find his family. Our investigation there might be completed in a day or two at most.

We took a train north. On the way, Watson was quiet. Not wanting to quiz him about details of his childhood yet, I asked about the boy we’d turned over to the authorities.

“His health is good, but he is old enough to remember his parents and will miss them for a time,” Watson said. “I was much younger,” he quietly added. “Apparently, I did not spend long with my parents before…”

 _Before I was abandoned,_ I supplied silently. And I understood, in part, why Watson had never wanted to find his mother. She had left him. He had most likely known this all his life, but since I had confirmed that he was turned over to the Parish House in Hexham as an infant, it had become a fact.

“You will think me a fool,” he said, “but until I was four or five years old, I was unaware that other children did not live in homes like the ones I grew up in. The lady in charge of the youngest children we called Mother. And the parish priest was Father. I didn’t know those words meant anything other than kind people who took care of me.”

Hearing this nearly broke my heart. I thanked God for the people who had taken care of him and educated him. I also thought of my own naive assumptions, the first time I understood what a foundling was. I was older then, perhaps seven or eight, and asked my mother, _why can they not live with their uncles and aunts?_ I found it hard to imagine being alone in the world, no one to care for me. _But who will hear their prayers and tuck them in? Who will nurse them when they are sick?_

“Did they treat you well, Watson?”

He smiled. “They did. When I see some of the families we encounter on cases, I am not sure but that I had better caregivers. A child may have two parents, and still be hungry and cold and uneducated. I at least had the necessities, and as much love as people could give me. It was changeable, but I was never mistreated. Children trust adults not to abuse them; I was no different. I was lucky to have people worthy of my trust.”

I made a vow then, that I would contribute towards the best care we could find for the small boy from our last case, visiting him to see that he was not being abused by people he had no choice but to trust.

We arrived in Blyth and sought out an inn before setting out for St Cuthberts, which was near the outskirts of town. As we headed out of the lodging house, Watson remarked, “Well, now we know where my atrocious accent comes from.”

I had divined his Northumberland origin from his speech when first we met, but found his accent endearing. “Not atrocious, my dear boy. Your homely brogue has charmed many a witness into giving testimony. There is nothing snobbish or pretentious about the way you speak.”

He smiled and coloured a bit. “When I first came to London, I tried to moderate it, but there really was no hiding my origins.”

I tucked his arm under mine. “Nor should there be need. You have nothing to hide.”

He gave my arm a little squeeze. We walked through the town and followed the road we had been told led to the boys’ home.

The building was of stone, a plain, unadorned box, but the grounds were spacious and full of gardens and playing fields, a healthy place for a child to grow up and thrive. Blyth is a port town, its residents mainly working in the mines and the shipyards. The people we met and spoke with seemed to have the same guileless nature and good humour I had always treasured in Watson. They were simple, unpretentious, hospitable.

Since I was eager to start our search for his family, I had not taken time to write to St Cuthberts Home, but we were greeted with courtesy by a pleasant matron who introduced herself as Mrs Hill.

“You are inquiring after a child brought up here?” she asked.

Watson inclined his head. “I am that child. John Watson is my name.”

She took the hand he offered her, studying his face. “You would be a bit before my time, I’m afraid. What years were you at Saint Cuthberts?”

“I was born in Hexham in 1852. I suppose I came here soon after. I left in ’63, when I was eleven, went to St Michaels.”

She nodded. “Yes, we used to take younger children because there were so few places suitable for them. Now we take children no younger than five.”

“We are attempting to locate any of Dr Watson’s family members, and wondered if you might know anything about his circumstances,” I said.

Her face lit up. “Oh, you’re a doctor, then? It’s so lovely to see how our boys have turned out. We’ve had several teachers and a few priests, and then there’s William Macardle, the famous barrister. But you’re our first doctor.”

Not wanting to be regaled with stories of celebrated graduates, I brought her focus back to the reason for our visit. “Were there any family records submitted at the time he was admitted?” I asked. “Or is there anyone who would remember the circumstances of his arrival here?”

She opened their records to us. We saw that Watson had arrived in April of 1854, soon after his second birthday. There was no note of who had brought him or how he had arrived.

“Mrs Gibbs was long in charge of the youngest ones. She’s retired now. If you’d like, I can send you her way.”

“Mother Gibbs!” Watson exclaimed. “I remember her!”

Fortunately, the woman still lived in town. We were warned that she was quite elderly and possibly forgetful.

“She was old thirty years ago, when I left here,” Watson remarked. “I suppose she is at least ninety now.”

“She may be senile, but she is our first eye-witness,” I said. “We will interview her.”

His moustache twitched. “I hope you will not find my case disappointing, leaving you in need of the cocaine bottle.”

“My dear boy! Since your return to Baker Street, I have not once taken cocaine.”

He smiled. “I am glad you have not needed any artificial stimulation.”

We arrived at the home of Mother Gibbs, a tidy cottage just outside of the town. A young man came to the door when we knocked. We explained our errand, and asked if we might speak to Mrs Gibbs.

“She’s verra deef,” he said, but led us inside.

The tiny woman sat in a wingback armchair, almost swallowed up by the large chair. With her white hair and stick-like limbs, she reminded me of a small, white-crested bird. Her face was deeply lined, but her eyes were bright.

The young man, who addressed her as _Auntie_ , yelled out to her who we were and what we wanted. All this time, her eyes were fixed on Watson, as if she were trying to figure out where she knew him. “Johnny,” she said at last. “Johnny Watson.”

“Mother Gibbs.” He went down on one knee close to her chair, so she could see him.

She put her hand on his head and tugged at his hair for a moment. Then she patted his cheek. “Come to visit me, have ye?” she said, smiling as if boys often wandered into her parlour from the past.

“Yes, Mother.” He proceeded to explain that he was seeking relatives. This had to be re-explained several times, loudly, before she understood.

“Ye had no folk,” she said. “Nor ma nor pa. A pretty wee thing.” She patted his cheek again. “Poor lad.”

We could get no more out of her. Watson had arrived in Blyth without papers. There was no birth certificate, as far as she knew. His baptismal record was in Corbridge. Perhaps the trail would pick up there.

We returned to the home and spoke with the woman who kept records to see if anyone had ever inquired about John Watson. _No one,_ she said. She showed us three photographs. The first showed a sturdy toddler with fair hair wearing a sailor dress and hat. _A pretty wee thing, indeed_. In another, he was about eight years of age, lined up with his classmates. The third picture was taken at age eleven, Watson looking grave as he prepared to make his way to St Michael School for the next phase of his life. I remembered my own passage to boarding school, the excitement and terror of leaving everything familiar behind.

In the class picture, Watson was able to point out other boys by name, but we both doubted that tracking them down would bring us any useful information.

“You should have these,” the woman said, putting the pictures in an envelope. “Adopting families usually want a baby picture, which is why that one was taken. The others you may take as well.”

I watched Watson’s face as he took the envelope, the first tangible evidence of his history. He of course remembered his days at St Cuthbert’s, but it is one thing to remember, and another to have a token of that time. He tucked it into the inside pocket of his coat. “I thank you.”

“One of your mates still lives here, you know,” she said. “Billy Murray. You might pay him a visit.”

We found the Murray home on a street near the harbour, where he worked at the shipyards. When we knocked on the door of Number 24, we heard the shouts of children. It was soon opened by a woman holding a baby, who was immediately surrounded by three additional children. We introduced ourselves. She told us she was Mrs Murray, and that she expected her husband home soon. She invited us into a small sitting room littered with wooden blocks, toy animals and dolls, and assorted other detritus of childhood.

Watson smiled and talked with the children, but I could see some emotion in his face. Not jealousy, but envy, perhaps. He saw what he might have had— a home, a family, and children. There was a wistfulness in his expression, similar to what I had seen as he held the small boy from our last case.

These four small Murrays, three boys and a girl, looked to be chips off of some larger red-haired block. Their hair colour ranged from straw to ginger to copper. The oldest, a boy, looked no more than five. All the children seemed bright and talkative, reminding me of my own Irregulars and their smaller siblings.

Watson took the baby in his lap when Mrs Murray went to check on the progress of the stew she was preparing for dinner. The other children clustered around him like small magnets. He asked each ofthem its age, what their favourite stories were and whether they knew their letters and numbers. They volunteered all this information and more, talking over one another and jumping up and down in their excitement to be heard.

While we sat there, the three older Murrays returned from school. They introduced themselves with more gravity, like children who know they are practicing to be adults. Each made a small bow or curtsy, said its age and grade in school. Watson asked about teachers, what lessons they enjoyed the most and the least, what books they’d read, and what games they liked to play.

At last Mr Murray returned home, and the entire litter rushed to cling onto his legs and arms. He laughed and pretended to walk with his limbs fettered by small bodies. We stood and introduced ourselves.

“Johnny!” he exclaimed, depositing small Murrays onto the floor and flinging his arms around Watson. “How are ye? It’s been a long time!”

Watson introduced me, and Murray’s eyes went wide. “Himself, the great detective,” he said. “Honoured to have you in our home. And Johnny, we’ve all read your stories. Always knew ye’d make something of yourself. This is like a visit from royalty.” He grinned at us both.

He and Watson sat and reminisced, reminding one another of the names of friends and teachers. Having elected to stay in Blyth, Murray knew the fate of many. There were classmates who had died. The shipyards were the largest employer in the area, and that work could be dangerous. He told Watson about their old teachers, the priest who had administrated the home in their day. Many had passed away, while others had moved on and disappeared. They talked about the war, and Watson told the story of his injury and return home.

Inevitably, the subject of marriage came up. “And ye’ve not taken a wife?” Murray asked. “I would have thought…” He glanced at me, then back at Watson, seeming to realise his mistake.

“I’m a widower,” Watson told him. “Married late, recently bereaved.”

“I’m sorry,” Murray said simply, with sincerity. “We’re not old, though, are we? Happiness will find you again.”

Mrs Murray entered then and nervously asked if we would stay to dinner. Interpreting her anxiety as the quotient obtained from dividing the quantity of stew by the number of mouths in the room, we made our excuses and left.

We returned to the inn and lingered over bowls of the innkeeper’s stew, accompanied by thick slices of bread. Watson talked about his days at the home, what sort of boy Murray had been. He asked about my own school days. I told him about the village school where I began my formal education, the boarding school I was sent to later. No great revelations were shared. We conversed comfortably, smoking a while and letting silence gradually overtake us.

As it was late, we prepared ourselves for bed. The room had two narrow beds arranged parallel to one another. There was a washstand with a pitcher of water prepared for our evening ablutions. We took turns there, washing ourselves as well as we could. A real bath would have to wait until our return, perhaps.

Watson was in bed before me. As I slipped under my blankets, I could hear him breathing in the darkness. We have shared a room often enough that I can tell when he is not asleep. I felt like talking, but wasn’t sure he would welcome more conversation, so I lay quietly, listening to him breathe, content to have him close.

“You were unhappy when I married,” he said softly.

“True.”

“Why?”

I had explained it to him at the time, in words I had come to regret: _I really cannot congratulate you… love is an emotional thing, and whatever is emotional is opposed to that true cold reason which I place above all things._

Even at the time I knew I was dissembling. I have known John Watson for nearly fifteen years. For three of those years, I was away, leaving him to assume I had died. During every one of those almost fifteen years, I had loved him. Such love must remain unspoken, of course. I had long posed as a man who despised sentiment; as I became aware of my true feelings, that mask of indifference was my armour. My affection for him must be that of a friend, never anything more. What a fool I am.

When he announced his intention to marry Miss Morstan, I was not surprised, but I was disappointed. During the exciting events that concluded her case, the _Sign of Four_ (as Watson later named it), I divined his feelings for her, but did not allow myself to think about it. The loss of the treasure was a disappointment to us all, but mostly to me. Had she become a wealthy heiress, Watson would never have proposed marriage to Mary Morstan.

I did not conceal my disappointment well. He assumed, as I intended, that my withdrawal from him was motivated by a desire not to intrude on their intimacy. Unwilling for him to guess my true feelings, I offered exhaustion as an excuse for my gloom. Though he disapproved of my cocaine use, I found myself resorting to it more often in those days.

I am not sure what I could ever have hoped for. John Watson was not a man like me. One day he would marry; this I had always known. But I wanted him to stay, and so had told myself that we would go on as we had, two bachelors living together, comfortable companions who understood one another well. It was not meant to be.

I had noted his attentions to the lady, but I did not give it much consideration. Though he is not a flirt, he possesses the power to draw female appreciation, giving ladies a kind of attention that always makes me worry a bit. I had grown used to it, but beneath my indifference lay a certainty that one day he would leave.

That day arrived. I did not go to his wedding, nor speak to him for some weeks afterwards. He came to the rooms at Baker Street one day, apologising that he hadn’t seen me in a while, asking me what I’d been doing with myself. I’d been sulking, of course, and was a bit cool towards him. But I can never long resist his charm, his warm presence, and we began working together from time to time, when he could get away from his practice.

His wife did not disapprove. I found no fault with her, other than the fact that she had done what I only wished I could do, that is, claim his heart. I did not often accept invitations to dine with them. Watson accepted this as a facet of my asocial personality. He did not press.

When Moriarty appeared, I feared for Watson. Because of his known connection to me, he could be a target. Fortunately he was willing leave for Europe with me. Things did not go as I planned.

When I returned from exile three years later, his wife had died. We did not discuss her passing at any length; it was not recent, and he seemed to be coping well enough. Before many weeks had passed, I was able to convince him to move back to Baker Street. Much had changed, and though we settled into an easy domesticity, it was clear that the years apart had affected us both.

None of these thoughts put any words in my mouth to answer his question. _Why had I not been happy when he married?_

“You were happy,” I finally said. “That was enough for me.”

“But _you_ were not happy. I know that you have always disparaged marriage and sworn you would never marry yourself, but why not be happy for me?”

“It was very sudden, Watson. To me, you seemed a confirmed bachelor, and I wondered if the lady returned your feelings.” All this was true, though I, a man who does not understand sentiment, can hardly claim to have insight into the reasons people marry, nor judge them for reasons that seem questionable.

He did not reply for a long time, but I knew he was not sleeping. I waited.

“I felt a bond,” he said at last. “She was an orphan, like me. Though she had at least known her father and carried the name her parents had given her, she seemed to feel some of the same loneliness that I did. I saw in her a chance to make a family, to be less alone. I foresaw children…” He sighed and fell silent. When he spoke again, his voice was so soft that I strained to hear him. “She lost the child. I had already lost you, and then I lost them both.”

I wanted to leap out of the bed, turn on the light, and look at his face. I did none of these things. He breathed unevenly for a while, and I waited.

“I’m sorry I left you,” I said at last.

He sighed. “I had already left you— to marry her.”

“I am sorry that she… that they died. I wish I had been here. For you.”

“I know you do. It couldn’t be helped.”

The words I wanted to say would not come out of my mouth. Perhaps it would have been foolish to say what I felt, what I wanted. I had my Watson back, and resolved to be content with this. I would not leave him again, whether he remained a widower or decided to take another wife. Opportunities expire, after all. I felt that mine surely had.


	3. The Family

On the following day, we ate breakfast in the dining room of the inn. Watson seemed thoughtful, as he had been of late. No doubt he needed time to process the memories our visit to St Cuthbert’s had evoked, and the unrealised hopes that seeing his classmate had exposed. Exactly what he regretted— his marriage, his lost chance at fatherhood, being forty-three and knowing that it was too late, that it all could have been different— I did not ask.

In my own life, there had been many regrets, but most of them had arisen from things I had done, not things I had avoided doing. I am generally a person who throws myself into whatever breach fate opens, and then have to extricate myself.

It is said that we can get over the things we regret doing; it is the things we have not done that we will always regret. I had already resigned myself to the one regret that would never be tempered by time.

“Is there more you want to see here?” I asked after silence had filled the space between us.

He shook his head. “I’m not sure what I hoped to learn.”

“We’ll go on to Corbridge and Hexham, then, and see what we can find out.”

“Of course,” he said.

But he was not enthusiastic, as he usually is on a case. This was not the Watson who chased after criminals. Though his deductive powers were not as keen as mine, he was always like a hound on the scent during cases, willing to run down any clue that presented itself. I saw that he was reserved, a sign that he was discouraged. Knowing who his parents were or why they had abandoned him could not bring back what he had lost.

“We mustn’t give up yet,” I said gently. “You know how I am, Watson. My curiosity will not let me rest.” I smiled at him. “We’ve come this far; we may as well complete our inquiries.”

He returned my smile. “Thank you for doing this.”

We took a train west, into Corbridge, and found St Andrews. The parish clerk allowed us to see the baptismal record, which told us that Watson had been baptised and given his name here on the 13th of May, 1852, six weeks after his birth was recorded in Hexham.

“Who were his sponsors?”

She pointed to a column where two names were written in a tiny scrawl.

“James Malcolm and Etta Munro. He was the sexton for years. I don’t know who she was.”

I wondered how Watson had ended up in Blyth. The parish house here had a small school, but no provision for foundlings.

I asked, “Where might an orphaned infant be cared for here around here?”

The clerk did not know, but pointed out that Watson’s place of birth was Hexham, and that he might have lived there before being sent to Blyth.

We went on to Hexham. I felt certain that here we would finally solve our mystery, ending with a family reunion. Watson seemed less certain.

We walked from the train station to the parish church, which was the Abbey. Outside, Watson paused, looking up at the huge structure with an expression of apprehension.

“I’m not sure,” he said, his eyes growing distant. “I want to know, but I’m afraid I will be disappointed.”

Every fibre of my being want to solve this, to know where Watson had come from, how the world had treated him when he was smallest and most vulnerable. But if he wished to turn around and go home, I would let it go. My love for him could never let me be the cause of pain again. He had not asked for this. I was the one who had instigated this search and set us on this journey. But it was Watson’s journey, not mine. I would do whatever he wished.

“We don’t have to do this,” I said. “My dear man, it is entirely up to you.”

He nodded and returned from his thoughts, looking at me with a smile I knew well. “We will not abandon the chase, my dear Holmes,” he said. “I only meant that I am preparing myself for disappointment.”

“Whatever we learn here, you must not take it as a definition of who you are. John Hamish Watson is the man you have made him, whatever his origins. That is the man I know, the friend I love.”

He startled at my final word, but then his face broke into one of those bright smiles that always lift me up from my own depths. He is like the sun when he smiles like that. I felt as if clouds had parted, and wherever our path took us, it would be full of light.

“Let’s go in,” he said.

We had a name to give to the parish clerk: Etta Munro. Hexham is much larger than Corbridge; if no one knew Etta Munro at the baptismal church, she might be from Hexham. I did not think it likely that she was Watson’s mother, but I guessed that she knew that information. If we could find her, confront her with the infant, now grown into a man seeking answers, she would have to tell us.

The way parish records are kept is inefficient. Etta Munro was not a name that our clerk knew, but he suggested that it might be a maiden name. We therefore went through marriage records, but as we did not even have an approximate age for the lady, there were years of records to look at.

Finally the rector’s wife wandered into the office with a stack of hymnals to be rebound. We asked.

“Why, that’s Alice Saunders’ mother,” she said. “Dead now for many years, but Alice still lives here.”

We explained our mission, our intent to determine her connection to Watson, and were given directions to her home, not many streets away.

I sensed that our search was coming to a close. Etta Munro was dead, but her daughter was the closest link we had to Watson’s birth.

My companion seemed energised, but he was quiet as we walked over the cobbled streets towards Grove Street. Perhaps he was thinking that he might have taken his first steps here, that if things had gone differently, he might have grown up and gone to school here. Watson is not a man to dwell on what might have been, but it was hard not to think of such things, knowing that he’d been born here.

We walked in the shadow of the Abbey. It had been built in the seventh century, but that building had been plundered by the Vikings, rebuilt, added to, and built over for centuries. I was interested in seeing the inside of the church, but would leave that for another time. The past is always there, under us all, waiting for us to notice. We grow old in the shadow of things hidden by time.

“It’s curious,” he said. “The baptismal record you found in Corbridge identified my birthplace as here, in Hexham. Why was I not baptised here?”

“There are many small villages around here,” I said. "Perhaps Corbridge was closer.”

He had not arrived in Blyth until he was two. This presented many possibilities. He might have lived with his parents until then, their death leaving him an orphan. But why were their names not on his birth record? He might have been taken in by family, who later gave him up. The reasons this might have happened were as numerous as the stories we heard on our cases— death takes many forms, and always leaves a mark on the living. Surely, his parents had died. It is instinctual for parents to cling to their children, but it must be admitted that some parents lack this instinct. We had seen it time and time again in our work. I hoped that Watson’s parents had not simply discarded him. Perhaps that was what he feared most.

We found the number we sought in a block of grey stone row houses. Once again, we knocked, and a door was opened.

Alice Munro Saunders was a woman approaching sixty. Her hair was mostly blond, but laced with grey. A widow with several grown daughters, she worked as a seamstress, she said.

I let Watson make our introductions. She gave no sign of surprise when he said his first and last names.

“I was baptised John Hamish Watson,” he added. “In Corbridge, on the thirteenth of May, 1852. Your mother was one of my sponsors.”

She nodded, but was silent. I perceived that she was experiencing some kind of inner turmoil.

“You have been expecting this day,” I said.

“I have,” she said after a moment. “But if you have come looking for your mother, I am not she.”

“But you know who she was,” I said.

She looked at Watson, her face shuttered. “Yes. But I will never reveal that to anyone, not even you, Mr Watson. The only other person you might ask is dead. That is my mother, the midwife who delivered you.”

“You were her friend.” I studied her face, then looked at Watson. “No— she was your sister.”

She said nothing, but her look did not deny it. “It’s a long time ago, Mr Holmes, and my sister is also dead and at peace. What good can possibly come from opening that chapter again?”

“John Watson deserves to know,” I said quietly. I looked at my friend and saw him struggling to maintain his composure. “He has never had a family. If you are his aunt, as I suspect, you owe it to him to tell what you know.”

She looked at Watson, her mouth open with surprise. “You were not adopted?”

He shook his head, but did not speak.

She began to cry. “We thought it best, mother and I. We kept you with us, but then— Mother died, and Lucy had left home, and I couldn’t raise you on my own.” She wiped her eyes. “Do you understand? I didn’t know what to do. Here you would grow up with a past you didn’t deserve— I thought it best to give you away— you would be adopted, they said. Such a pretty child, surely some family would take you in.”

“Lucy?” Watson said. “My mother?”

Alice nodded. “My younger sister.”

“How old was she?” I asked. Surely this much be a piece of the past Watson hadn’t deserved. “Who was the father?”

“Too young.” She shook her head. “She would never say who the father was. It could have meant prison for him, for she was a little older than a child.”

“What happened to my mother?” Watson asked.

“She went to Glasgow after you were born, worked in a factory, making children’s clothing. She used to send outfits for you, little suits and hats.” She smiled through her tears. “I didn’t have the heart to tell her I’d given you away. We wrote letters until she became ill. She died in ’57.” She put her hands over her face and wept. “Forgive me. I thought it for the best. I didn’t know—”

John Watson did exactly what I expected him to do. He leaned forward in his chair, smiling, and said, “You did what you had to do. I’ve had a good life. I was well-cared for. I was loved.”

She looked at him, her eyes still flowing. “You look like a gentleman. You’ve had an education?”

“Indeed. I am a doctor. I went to Afghanistan with the army. Since my return, I’ve worked with my friend, Mr Sherlock Holmes.”

“You are that John Watson, then? Who writes the stories?”

“I am.” He smiled at me. “And thanks to Mr Holmes, the mystery of my birth has been solved.”

“I’m relieved,” she said. “I never knew what happened to you… after. I was married with children of my own, and my husband… I… I had to let you go. We lived out near Halton then. I walked all the way to Hexham and left you on the parish doorstep, with a note, telling your name, so they would know you’d been baptised. I assumed that you’d been adopted. I told myself it was for the best.”

“You reported his birth, but as a John Doe,” I said. “Why?”

“No one knew about the pregnancy. People would have talked, and Lucy said no one must ever know, so Mother just reported the birth, told them the mother had come to her for help, but left without telling us her name. Lucy would never tell us who the father was. I suspect… well, she couldn’t.” She looked at us, resolute. “And I will not speculate. She left us and never came back. Except for her letters, that’s all I know. Mother might have known more, but she never said.”

“Where did his name come from?” I asked.

“After Lucy left, Mother insisted that he be baptised, and for that, he had to have a name. She brought him to Corbridge, to the church there, and had it done. Mother said that John was a good name, being the name of the disciple that Jesus loved. And Hamish Watson was her father’s—your grandfather’s name. So he was baptised John Hamish Watson.”

“My grandfather,” Watson said, smiling. “I would like to know more about him.”

She stood. “Let me look at you.”

Watson rose and came close to her, letting her see him. Alice’s eyes went over his face, looking for traces of her sister, perhaps. I could see enough resemblance between aunt and nephew to tell me that she must have seen a shadow of Lucy there. She stepped back and looked at his figure. “She was a tiny thing, but sturdy. Stubborn as goat. A bit of trouble, to be honest.” She smiled at him. “I think you are stubborn as well, Doctor. Ah, Lucy would be pleased to know she’d produced such a fine, handsome son.”

Then she pressed her apron to her eyes, sat down, and wept some more.

A quick step at the door signalled the arrival of a visitor. Without knocking, a woman entered and called out, “Mother, I’m here.”

“I’ve brought the eggs you wanted, and milk as well. Will you be needing any—” The visitor came through the door of the sitting room and saw us. Smiling, she took off her shawl and said, “I’m sorry, I didn’t know you had visitors. I’m Lucy, Alice’s daughter.” She held out her hand.

Alice dried her eyes, took Watson’s arm. “Come, Lucy, and meet your cousin John.”

By that evening, the house was filled with Alice’s family— three daughters, their husbands, and nine grandchildren, Watson’s nieces and nephews. We stayed in Hexham for three days, an endless celebration of food and story-telling, tears and hugs. I had never been hugged by so many Watson-like people, nor felt so many beaming faces looking at me, all filled with the same warmth that I always feel whenever Watson looks at me.

We learned about Lucy, her short and unhappy life. Alice told us about her older brother John, son of Hamish, who had gone away to the first war in Afghanistan and been killed in the disastrous retreat from Kabul in 1842. She told us how she had married Bert Saunders out of necessity, and how he, a hard man, had refused to raise her nephew.

“We had three of our own by then,” she said. “He said that he would not raise a child born out of wedlock, that it was God’s judgment on his mother.”

Her daughters nodded. Lucy, the middle daughter, smiled at Watson and said, “I remember my grandmother, and think I remember you, as well. I’m a little older than you, and I remember my mother asking me to hold you. You were fussing because your teeth were coming in.”

“You were an early walker,” Alice told him. “But not a great talker. We had to watch you constantly so you wouldn’t climb up on things. But it took you months to say any word other than _ba._ ”

“You used to sing to him, Mother,” said Rose, the eldest daughter. She turned to Watson. “You loved _Ally, Bally Bee_.” At once, all the cousins, nieces, and nephews began to sing.

There was much laughter, food appeared out of thin air, and our glasses were never empty. When the smallest Watson niece began to fall asleep, we said our goodbyes, promising to return soon.

As we accepted hugs all around, Alice pressed a package into Watson’s hands. “You take these things, John. Her letters, a few pictures. They will help you know your mum.”

“I know it could not have been easy for you,” he said. “Think no more of guilt, or what might have been. We have met now, and will always be family.”

As we walked to our inn, Watson said, “Think of that poor girl, walking all that way with a babe in arms, leaving me for strangers to find. I can’t imagine the walk back to Halton, all that way, feeling as if she’d done a terrible thing.”

I had nothing to add to that. Watson now knew that people had loved him, that he hadn’t been abandoned for lack of love. He had found his family and knew his story. But I was thinking of the child back in London, whose sad story might one day make him ask questions. _Was I loved?_ he might wonder. _Did no one want me?_

I resolved to give him better answers.

The train home was cold. Watson shivered as he slept, and I covered us both with a blanket as well as I could. As I was closing my eyes, prepared to get a little sleep, I felt his hand slip into mine and give it a squeeze. He did not let go.

I gave him a return squeeze, assuming that he was asleep, but in a moment he spoke.

“Thank you,” he said, settling his head on my shoulder. “Thank you, my dearest friend.”

The morning after our return, I contacted a solicitor my brother recommended and paid him a visit. I went alone, unwilling to disappoint Watson with bad news, hoping to surprise him if the news was good.

“The Chancery Court might grant custody for the child to you, as wards,” he said. “This will not give you parental rights. Since this is a legal right, not a biological right, it can be revoked. You are not the child’s parent, and have only what rights the court allows you.”

“I understand,” I said. “Dr Watson and I have taken an interest in the child because of his unfortunate circumstances, as I explained. Dr Watson is an orphan himself, and knows how tragic a life a small child can look forward to without parents. We wish to protect him, offer him emotional and financial benefits which he may not otherwise receive.”

“Would the child live with you?”

“I am, as you know, a consulting detective, and Dr Watson is my colleague. Our hours are irregular, our lives unpredictable. We would arrange for a nanny or a governess to keep the child, but would see him regularly. I have checked on the availability of flats nearby, and we could have him living quite close to us.”

“I will process the paperwork,” he said, nodding. “There will most likely be a hearing, to establish you and Dr Watson as responsible custodians for the child. I will let you know when it is scheduled.”

“I should check up on the boy,” Watson said that evening. We were sitting by the fire, finishing our tea. “I wonder if he has been adopted.”

“He has not,” I said. “However, someone has expressed an interest in taking him as a ward.”

He sat up, tossing his cigar stub into the grate. “Someone? You have checked into this?”

“I have.” I drew on my pipe, exhaled a cloud of blue smoke, enjoying the anticipation.

“Who is this person?”

I smiled. “It is I, Watson. Or rather, the two of us. I talked to a solicitor and have had the papers drawn up. All that remains is a hearing, and the child will be our ward.”

He stared at me for a long moment, then sighed. “Oh, Holmes, they will never let two men like us raise a child.”

“Plenty of men have wards. We could hire a nursemaid or a governess, or—”

He took my hands in his. “Holmes, I married because after your death, I didn’t want to be alone again. Mary was a fine woman, and I thought we might have children. Then she died, too. And you came back. But had you not left in the first place, had I not thought you dead, I think…”

I looked into his faithful eyes. There was love there, to be sure, but perhaps I had not understood before what it meant. “Watson,” I said. “What are you saying?”

“You see, Sherlock, but you do not observe.” With that, he reached up and pressed his lips to mine. “Do you understand?” he whispered.

“Watson,” I said. “John.”

“It was always you,” he said, his eyes filling with tears. “I would have given it all up— marriage and children. I would never have left you.”

“My dear,” I said embracing him. “My dear John. Had I known, I would never have left you, either.”

The boy was warded to us, and we became his guardians. The upper floor of 221B Baker Street, which had held Watson’s room and a lumber room full of unused furniture, was remade into a small flat, where we were able to house the child with his governess, a woman vetted by my brother. His name, fittingly, is William John. We have agreed that, when he is old enough, he must be allowed to know his history. And he will know that we chose him.

For us, there are no more regrets. Watson and I live with propriety, but when there are no more visitors, when our son is put to bed and we can lock our door— then embraces and kisses and other things no longer wait.


End file.
